


Steal Yourself Away

by Ursula



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Pre series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ursula/pseuds/Ursula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's life sucks. His wife has asked for a trial separation. He just started his new work with the White Collar crime division in the hopes of winning her back. His new case involves a very elusive art forger, counterfeit bond maker, and con man and he has just met a guy who fills the hole left in his life by El's absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal Yourself Away

Title: Steal Yourself Away  
Author: Ursula  
Rating: rating: FRAO  
Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Neal

Notes: Please do not take the trial separation in this story as disrespect to Elizabeth. She is a loving, passionate wife. It takes a lot to accept that the man you love leaves each day and any day you might get the call that he will never come home. I think when we meet El, she has accepts Peter's work and built some defense in her career, but accepting that would take time. The first time Peter is shot would be terrifying. You know it could happen, but that would make it very real to El. So that's said.

Spoilers: For the pilot

Warnings: Elizabeth and Peter have separated briefly in this story, set for the most part early in Peter's pursuit of Neal. It's slash with some leanings toward one true threesome.

Word Count: 10,603

Summary: Peter's life sucks. His wife has asked for a trial separation. He just started his new work with the White Collar crime division in the hopes of winning her back. His new case involves a very elusive art forger, counterfeit bond maker, and con man and he has just met a guy who fills the hole left in his life by El's absence.

1\. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.  The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise.  No copyright infringement is intended.

OooOooO

Dinner with El had gone well enough, but when Peter drove her home, she stopped him at the door with the flat of her much adored hand. "Peter, I really mean this. I love you. I know you love me, but I have to find out whether I can love you and your job."

"White Collar crime is safer," Peter said. "They are con artists, bond forgers, and financial defrauders."

"Don't try to con me, darling. Haven't you always told me that you love me for my brains as much as for my looks? People kill over money. That's one of the big three, sex, greed, and hate. So let me deal with this. I promise you. If I come back to you, I will never complain about the hours, the danger, and the competition from all your overly smart quarry. Good night, darling."

Good night.

Peter hit the roof of his car so hard that it was going to leave a dent. He should tell his wife that he would quit and find some other less dangerous work. He could be a security consultant. The Ryan Foundation had offered him a position which would pay twice what the FBI paid him.

Who was he kidding? Peter was honest enough to admit that he would have sawed his wrists open with a paper clip if he took a desk job.

But El. His El. Maybe never again, his El.

Elizabeth even had the nerve to tell Peter to go sow some wild oats. Sleep with someone else. See if he really couldn't live without her.

Not likely. Who was as intelligent, as beautiful, as bewitching as El?

OooOooO

This Don Johns character was a puzzle. Peter grinned as he read about the sudden discovery that the Gauguin at the Metro was a fake. The original was the subject of a controversial law suit as it was reputed to have been plundered by Nazis during World War two. A Jewish family claimed it, but did not have proof they once owned it. Peter wondered if they might have paid someone to take it?

One of his informants suggested that Peter check the credentials of the man hired to clean the paintings. The name, Don Johns, is an obvious alias. Furthermore, someone had removed the security pictures and the fingerprints that were submitted had no record because there was no Don Johns beyond a birth certificate and a social security card.

Peter poked around the apartment that Don Johns had occupied. It was a furnished apartment but was nicer than the one Peter was renting. That irritated him. Peter worked hard for his living and accepted the things he could not have. That this Don Johns or whoever the man really was could live so well off purloined goods was not in balance with the way Peter thought the universe should operate.

"Where does the trash go from this apartment?" Peter asked.

"To the dumpster in the basement and then outside once a week," the manager mentioned. "You know, Don was the sweetest young man. Such a neat goatee and incredible blue eyes. Always paid his rent on time and very polite."

"I'm sure he is a gem," Peter said. "Has the dumpster been emptied since Don left?"

"It goes out tomorrow," the manager, a blue haired and stout old lady said.

Waving to his team of shiny new agents, Peter said, "Come on, kids. Let's go dumpster diving."

Peter did not admit how much he enjoyed making the Harvard graduates with MBAs and law degrees (for which they didn't have to wash dishes to pay) get down on their knees and wade through trash.

Not that Peter did not do his part. In fact, he found the bag with Don John's trash, empty bottle of good wine, excellent quality stage make up, brown whiskers shaved from the goatee, a napkin with a beautiful sketch of the museum. Peter smoothed the napkin out and admired the quick but elegant lines. Every damn thing in that trash was wiped clean of fingerprints. Don John was good, very, very smart.

Peter smiled a fox like smile. He was going to love this pursuit.

He can't have Elizabeth, but he will catch Don John.

OooOooO

The assistant curator was sure that the antique map was a forgery. He was the one who called Peter to have a look with his experts. The chief curator was beautiful woman, although one with the reputation of stealing credit from her employees for the brilliant ideas that won her acclaim. She was furious with her underling. "I authenticated this myself," she said. "What kind of a fool do you think I am? I had every test run. It's perfect. It's the age it should be. The materials are correct."

The curator was correct. Every test that Peter ran validated her results. The Vinland map, indicator of a very early visit of Vikings to America, seemed real.

The charming man who had sold the curator the map had the most vivid blue eyes and copper red hair and a beard worthy of a Viking chief. The curator described the man as being in his forties, cheeks a little puffy, and lines around the striking eyes. It did not sound like Don Juan except the color of the eyes but Peter's sixth sense was kicking him in the gut.

Peter couldn't prove it but that assistant curator now on reprimand was right. The map was a beautiful fake. There was a certain elegance of a drawing on the map that reminded Peter of the napkin sketch that was preserved in a plastic envelope in the file Peter was building on Don John.

OooOooO

El was in counseling, she said. She was not sure what she wanted to do about their marriage. She was dating someone else. It killed Peter. El said, "Peter, I want you to go out on a date. Surely there is someone who interests you? I don't even want to consider reconciliation until you have tried to be with someone else."

Yeah, like Peter had time to meet anyone as hard as he was working.

Peter spent the days drinking too much coffee and, when he was not drunk on work at night, he was just plain drunk.

OooOooO

Sober now for several days, Peter had gone to a bar to pick someone up, anyone to obey Elizabeth. He was hopeless at flirting, but you had to talk to someone before you took them home and fucked them. Didn't you?

It didn't help that Peter was so sexually frustrated that he could have jumped anyone. Would have loved to have slammed home into the man he was sure was not named Don John. He had a brief vision of blue eyes and went smiling up to the blue eyed blond woman with the incredible chest. She rejected his opening gambit with a long pointed red manicured finger nail to his chest. "I don't do married, jerk."

Peter had forgotten to take off his wedding ring.

OooOooO

Don John was not on Peter's agenda when he went to the Avante art gallery to investigate some reports of financial malfeasance on the part of the owner. George Hinckley, the man in question, had some questionable acquaintances with organized crime connections. Peter was jostling elbows with his erstwhile probie, Ruiz, in this investigation, but his supervisor, Reese Hughes, favored Peter and allowed him to take the lead.

After his meeting with Hinckley, Peter was in a good mood. He loved the chase. Honestly, it made him hard when it was good. It had little to do with his quarry usually. It was the game that did it.

Peter had a sudden realization that he was good at flirting. Just as long as it was these intellectual courtships as he wooed a suspect into his web to deflower them of their innocence. If you understood, it was the final act of having them legally found not innocent that Peter engendered. Peter felt damn good for a guy who had not been laid for several weeks and whose wife was meeting with an attorney about divorce.

Peter called into the office and took the rest of the day off. He needed some exercise and a long walk in the park was on his agenda. He was on his second loop when he veered left toward the area where dog lovers congregated. El and he had been talking about getting a dog before Peter had been shot. Before El had nursed him back to robust health. Before El had asked him to quit his job and Peter had offered the transfer as an unacceptable compromise.

This was one of the few places that Peter found distracting. There were always dogs running off leash and he frequently asked to pet them. Today, this rather lovely day, was no exception even in mid work week.

In the sunshine outside, the light pooled around a circle of admirers who were the setting for the gem of a man within. The man was painting with quick, somewhat choppy strokes of the brush, adding color to a thick layer of background paint.

Peter abandoned the dogs in favor of this other interest. He loved art with the hopeless passion of a man who had no talent at it. He had pissed his father off by taking so many art credits that he had to carry more classes to work toward his masters. Not that dear old dad had paid for his college. Peter had a scholarship, loans he had only recently paid off, and had given up sleep to earn his work study hours.

As Peter approached, the artist looked up and a beam of sunlight hit his face as if god was up there trying his hand at clever stage lighting. His eyes were the same iridescent electric blue of the flowing fins of Peter's Siamese fighting fish that swam in graceful lack of purpose on his desk in the apartment that was not Peter's home.

The eyes dominated the face, but the rest was also pleasing. His mouth was sensitive. His chin was strong without overwhelming the artful harmony of beauty. The expression in those lovely eyes spoke of intelligence, quick wits, and imagination.

"Great impasto work," Peter said.

The eyes perused Peter from head to toe. The gaze felt like fingers stroking over Peter's skin. He felt a wave of heat and there was no mistaking that the artist was considering Peter as a stranger he would like to know better.

Male. Beautiful. Peter had a taste for that too as long as the guy had the brains and the balls to go with it. If he was with a guy, Peter wanted him to be one. Not that he cared for the linebacker type, but he liked an even match to his own male ego and strong opinions. There was someone he dated in college who might have been his El except that death was a rival and took his beloved Nate.

Nate was merely getting some cash from the ATM when a drugged out junkie believed the well dressed college student was an easy mark. Nate had martial training and thought he could fight the mugger off. A coda is no match for a Nine MM Wal-Mart special. Peter had struggled through two days of almost hope before Nate closed his blue eyes forever.

The next week the FBI was recruiting on campus and Peter filled out an inquiry. The rest was history. Nate's killer oded on the drug spree that the robbery financed long before Peter could track him down. It was justice of a sort and closure, but it was still no substitute for the man Peter loved. Meanwhile, Peter found the answer to his questions about what he would do with his life in this fascinating, frustrating, and compelling job. His work was his first love. Anyone else had to accept that it was a three way relationship. Although Peter transferred to white collar crime to try to keep El, he had been thinking about it for a year. The idea of matching wits with worthwhile opponents thrilled him. He also loved the cases that involved art. It was like being paid to play.

Back to Nate, El knew about him. Peter had not been apologetic, just open that one of his past loves was a guy. El didn't care. Well, not true, El had really loved that her boyfriend was that adventurous. She said that the only thing that she didn't like about Peter is that he might be too conservative. So that honesty gave Peter glamour to El that helped her stay interested long enough to see past the façade Peter so carefully built to survive at the FBI. No, it was not that he was interested more in the person than the gender in his romantic life that was at issue. It was that beneath the bad suits and ugly ties, Peter Burke was reckless, addicted to danger, and disinclined to the bureaucratic maneuvers necessary to survive in the agency. If Peter could soar right through the lines to get to the juicy prize, he would. In that respect, he had more in common with the people he chased, captured, and helped convict than he did with his FBI colleagues. It was what made him a great FBI agent and the guy El loved enough to marry.

The smile that this artist bestowed upon Peter was interested. Peter felt himself standing straighter, chest puffed out a little more.

"Thank you, I pride myself on my impasto work," the young man said. "Stay and watch if you like. It doesn't bother me."

The picture took place rapidly. The artist had taken pictures of the dogs playing. They moved too rapidly to paint from life. There was the yellow Labrador retriever that always brought his slobbery ball and dropped it at Peter's feet. There was the pair of rescued greyhounds, sleek, eyes like deer. The pit bull with the scars was also rescued, a survivor of being a bait dog for dog fighting. Peter knew the dogs and their stories better than he remembered their owners.

The artist was so intent on his creation that he didn't notice the sky darkening. Peter felt the first drop of rain and touched the artist's arm. "Hey, your painting will be ruined. Time to pack up."

Startled, the artist looked up, wiping a paint-smeared hand on his jeans. "Wow, how did that happen?" Looking at Peter, he asked, "Help me?"

"Sure," Peter said, gathering up equipment. He was distracted by the sight of his new found friend leaning down. The ass that filled those jeans made Peter's cock jump. It was round, tight, and seemed to beg to be touched.

"You have a car?" the artist asked.

"What?" Peter asked.

"A car," the artist said. "I took a cab."

"Oh, yeah, come on…I'm Peter Burke," Peter said.

"Neal Caffrey at your service."

Peter grinned and said, "As I am at yours."

OooOooO

After the mad dash to the car, Peter was pleased with himself. Who said he couldn't flirt? Neal Caffrey seemed to like Peter's moves just fine.

"Let me help you get this stuff inside," Peter said, when they arrived at Neal's apartment which was located in Greenwich Village at a suitably artsy location.

"I insist," Neal said. "I have a lovely Chateau Lagune, fresh, fine, elegant, velvety smooth"

"Sounds like you," Peter said.

"Well, we will have to give you a chance to compare," Neal said with a laugh.

OooOooO

Neal's apartment was a vast loft, half filled with art equipment and the other partitioned off with ornate screens into a well decorated living area. Neal set the easel down to allow his painting to dry and spent a few moments taking care of his equipment. Peter leaned against a column, enjoying the way Neal moved.

"What do you do besides paint?" Peter asked.

"Oh, I'm working at La Havre's Gallery as a restorer," Neal said, washing his hands after putting away his paints and soaking his brushes.

"Just a sec," Neal said, "Got to get out of my painting clothes."

Stepping behind a screen, Neal shed jeans and old white shirt. When he returned to sight, he was wearing clean, tightly fitting jeans and black sweater that hugged his well defined chest and framed his beautiful face.

"And, what do you do, Peter Burke?" Neal asked, going to his refrigerator to take out fruit and cheese.

Peter seriously thought of lying, but he shrugged off the impulse. "I'm an FBI agent."

"Seriously?" Neal said, looking over his shoulder as he retrieved a loaf of artesian bread. "That is so incredible. Sexy."

"Sexy?" Peter said, laughing.

"Yeah, I have always had a thing for cops and robbers. Handcuffs and such," Neal said.

"Cliché," Peter said gently.

"Ah, but some classics deserve repetition. Come here, take off your coat, be comfortable," Neal said, going towards the couch with his tray of food and the wine and placing it on the coffee table.

Peter obeyed. It was a small couch, more of a love seat and Peter could feel Neal's thigh warm against his own every time they shifted position or reached for a piece of cheese or fruit. The wine was very delicious.

"How is it?' Neal asked, watching Peter sip, his own glass spinning in his hand.

"It's very good," Peter said, turning to gaze at Neal. "Fine, elegant, velvety smooth."

"Ah, but not fresh?" Neal teased.

"I would say not innocent, but very refreshing."

"And we are not speaking of wine now, are we?"

"No, I'm interested and I don't think I'm mistaken that I wouldn't be sitting here if you just wanted a ride home in the rain."

"You're direct," Neal said, putting down his wine glass. "I like that. And the answer is yes, I am very interested."

Smooth. That was how it went, that first kiss.

Neal's lips were petal soft, but his kiss was fierce. Peter leaned over him, one hand on the couch, the other carding through that wonderful thick and soft hair. He was breathless, entranced, not wanting to stop. They gasped for air, sighed beneath each other's heated mouths, hands explored.

Peter's heart was vibrating. No, it was his damn cell phone. It was Jones, one of his new agents. Jones said, "Hey, boss, sorry, I know you wanted the day off, but we have a situation on the Grasse case. The bird is trying to flee. I thought you would want to know."

Peter looked unhappily at Neal and said, "Duty calls. Can I take you to lunch tomorrow?"

"I'd be delighted," Neal said. He handed Peter a card and said, "Pick me up at work at noon?"

"I will," Peter said. He worked through a lot of lunches, but this was not one he would miss.

Neal walked Peter to the door and offered his lips for a chaste kiss. Peter obliged. He said, "You really are beautiful."

"I was going to say that to you," Neal laughed.

"Seriously," Peter said, blushing.

"You don't see yourself then," Neal said. "I wanted you the moment I saw you. Just lucky for me that it rained."

Peter walked out that door a happy man.

OooOooO

Lunch was good. Neal did most of the talking and Peter was an excellent listener. He asked Neal to dinner and was accepted. So it was a date, a real one. Peter felt alive for the first time since…

Peter called El, feeling guilty even though he was doing what she said. El said she was dating a stock broker by the name of Jason Whitney. Jason kept decent work hours, showed up for dinner when he was due, and even liked to take El shopping. Peter hated the son of a bitch, but he kept grim silence.

Softly, El said, "What about you? Are you taking my advice?"

"I met someone yesterday and I like him," Peter said, taking the bull by the horns.

"Really?" Elizabeth said.

"He's younger than me, brown hair, big blue eyes, nice build. He's smart and charming," Peter said.

"I am glad for you,' El said, "I hope it works."

Peter could not read her. She sounded sad. Perhaps the test was that Peter would not date anyone and he had failed.

"If you don't want me to see him anymore," Peter offered.

"No, see him. Let's go back to basics of you and me before we were we," El said. "I'd love to meet him though."

"I'm not that sophisticated, to introduce my maybe boyfriend to my wife, but I will tell him that I'm married, separated, and that I was not the one who wanted to live apart."

"Hope he enjoys truthful men," El said. She said, "I would love to see your pickup moves."

"He did the picking up," Peter admitted. "I just went along with the program."

"He has good taste," El said.

"I love you," Peter said.

"I do love you, Peter," El replied. "I just don't want to be your widow. You talk to him about that too. About what your job means. About what it is like to be the one waiting every day for that call. Because if he comes to love you, and he will, if he knows you, he has to face losing you. I hope he's stronger than I am. Goodbye, Peter."

It sounded so final that Peter threw his cell phone across the room in fury. Then he retrieved it and called Neal.

"Dinner still on?"

"Yes, of course," Neal said.

"Good," Peter said with heartfelt relief.

"Trouble?"

"I'll tell you over dinner," Peter said.

OooOooO

The dinner was someplace that Peter would have saved for a missed anniversary dinner with El. It suited Neal who seemed to enjoy pampering.

Peter decided to serve his life up with dessert. He said, "Things you should know about Peter Burke."

"That he has the sexiest mouth I have ever seen and that when he looks at me I want to drop to my knees all hot and bothered?"

"Um," Peter said.

"You are so adorable when you are flustered," Neal said, taking a bite of his chocolate raspberry truffle. "I'm listening. Should I take notes, Professor?"

"Just be serious for a moment, Neal," Peter said. "First of all, I am not the kind of guy who goes on a lot of dates. I know quickly if I'm interested. You get a chance to run if I'm too intense."

"So far, I like it," Neal said. "I flirt, but I am the biggest romantic sap on the planet."

"I'm glad to hear that," Peter replied. "Second, there's this," Peter added, flipping his wedding ring into his palm.

For one moment, Peter was sure that Neal was confused and worried. Even Peter was not so sure of relationships that he would offer a ring at a first date. "I'm married. Separated. She couldn't handle my other mistress."

Neal's eyes grow bigger than narrowed. "Peter?"

"Work, Neal, I am a FBI agent. I recently transferred to white collar crimes, which usually involves less violent criminals. Before I transferred, I was shot and damn near died. My wife, Elizabeth, waited until I was back at work and then she asked me to quit. I asked to be moved to the white collar crime division, thinking that would work. It didn't. She's seeing someone else. I want to see you, but I'm not divorced yet."

"So I'm the rebound guy?" Neal asked.

"If you want to say it that way," Peter said. "For me, love is not blind. I know what I want."

He doesn't have to say 'I want you'.

OooOooO

"Me too," Neal said, staring at Peter's beta. The fish reacts to his finger, flaring his fins, mad and beautiful, designed to fight and mate in perfect elegance.

"So pretty," Neal said.

"Yeah," Peter said, not meaning the fish. He wasn't sure why they came here to Peter's apartment. The rooms were drab, decorated with a few familiar things; the rest was thrown together from thrift stores and cheap furniture stores. The bed and the desk were the only decent furniture in his small apartment. He brought his desk from the house he still thinks of as home. The bed was new, comfortable, firmer than El likes them. It was the first time in six years he has picked out a bed that was not going to hold El.

Peter finally got back to what Neal said, before he admired the fish. "You too, what?"

"Break up, shake up," Neal said, turning to face Peter before walking across to open the door and peer at Peter's bedroom. "In my case, she says she can't live in a dream castle anymore. I don't make enough money for what I spend. I'm not ever going to make that breakthrough as a painter. I'm not grownup enough for her."

Removing his coat, Neal carefully hung it. He moved around the apartment and Peter swore that he cast glamour over the drab surroundings. He was like some Disney animation, color following in his path.

Neal found Peter's copy of Great Expectations, a very nice edition, looked at Peter and smiled. The antique magnifying glass that was a joke gift from Reese Hughes sat on top the book and Neal picked it up and peered playfully at Peter through the lens.

"You going to think less of me if I make love with you on the first date?" Neal said, setting down the lens.

"I promise you that I will think the world of you," Peter said through throat gone tight with longing.

"Then let's not pretend. There's never enough time and the time to devour the fruit is when it is first ripe," Neal replied. His eyes flickered over Peter and Peter felt naked before that gaze. He did not feel that Neal found him wanting in appeal.

Neal stepped out of his shoes and toed off his socks. The sweater was lifted over Neal's head, sending his hair into disarray. Peter's fingers furled and unfurled with the desire to touch that hair, grip it, and bend Neal back in breath robbing kisses.

Neal unbuckled his belt. Peter made a soft, wondering sound as the trousers fell away and the briefs. Neal was slim and beautiful. Not as fragile as he seemed. His muscles were restrained power. He had a lovely cock, thick enough, long enough, and nicely formed. Peter missed being able to admire cocks and so he ogled this one with unrestrained enjoyment.

By the time, Neal had draped his clothing over Peter's desk chair, Peter finished undressing. This was happening so fast, but Peter was giddy with Neal's beauty and he needed, he needed him so much. There was no rhythm in the way they kissed, no dance in the rapid shuffling scramble to reach the bed. There was only desire, passion, and the urgency of need newly discovered.

It was awkwardness and excitement. Peter has not had any lover but El in half a dozen years. His last male lover was ten years gone although still much beloved. At first, they kissed; they explored each other. Neal's chin was rough with five o'clock shadow. Peter touched those soft, yielding lips and then the sandpaper over the silk of his jaw. He liked the contrast. Neal was sculpting beauty out of Peter's muscles, his solid breadth of chest, his legs that could run so quickly after a suspect. He traced the worry lines that have painted across Peter's face. His finger was a brush that stroked smiles over Peter's mouth.

"You can have me," Neal said, his voice quick with need. "I want your cock up my ass. I want you to take me as hard as you want me. I just want you. I want you, Peter."

Peter thought he would not remember the way to do this, to prepare, to open. He remembered someone telling him that it was like Dr. Seuss if Dr. Seuss wrote sex manuals, one finger, two fingers, tongue, and twist. That was true. It worked and Peter must have been doing something right the way that Neal made those incredible sounds for him. He was careful with Neal although it was obvious that it was not a long time for Neal since he last was taken in this way. There was something about the way a well-fucked man opened to you and Neal responded that way.

How do you know that you are going to love someone? The body knew what it liked. It responded with nerves on fire when it was touched in the right way. Peter's cock has no conscience, no preferences to what it liked. Peter does. He has a loving heart even though he was cautious in whom he trusted. When he gave himself, he gave without hesitation. He gave all of him. He does not bargain and he will not deny.

Peter loved Neal. He will always love him.

This first time, they didn't know each other, what worked, what didn't. They were slightly off key, but Peter managed to press inside Neal without hurting him or embarrassing himself by coming the minute he worked past the barrier of muscles . Nate preferred to be fucked on his knees, face away from Peter. Neal moved to his back, sliding long, strong, and lean legs over Peter's shoulders. Peter admired the thighs, smoothed exploring hands over the slightly furred skin from knee to ankle. He was buying time, feeling that if he moved right now that it would be over before it really started. Neal was gazing at him, not perplexed, curious, and very turned on. Peter regained control and moved.

They were off step at first. Neal would move at the same time as Peter thrust. It got better. They found syncopation, symmetry, ecstasy. Peter loved what he was doing to Neal, the carefully groomed hair gone wild, the smile lost in gasps, hands gripping the bed, those legs hugged around him. Peter managed to spare enough of his brain on fire to stroke Neal to bring him the rest of the way before he came, they come, they dissolve in pleasure into each other.

As they sprawl on Peter's now wrecked bed, Neal turned to Peter and asked with simple words that said so much to Peter, "Can I stay the night?"

"Like I would you let you leave?" Peter replied. He reached for Neal. Nate loved to be cuddled and touched after sex. The once or twice that Peter had tried with another guy, he found out that was not the rule with male lovers. Peter found that Neal loved being touched. He loved being kissed. They fell asleep, entangled in each other, limbs sprawled in a lover's knot.

OooOooO

Neal was still in bed when Peter left for work. He had offered a sleep muddled kiss. He might kiss like an angel but he still had a touch of morning breath and he needed a shave.

"You don't have to go to work?" Peter asked.

"It's closed today," Neal said. "You want me to get out of your hair?"

"I don't even want you to get out of my bed," Peter said. He said, "Listen, I'll bring in some lunch. Don't leave."

"Oh, a nooner? I'm here!" Neal said, a little bit more awake.

"I made coffee and there's bagels, cream cheese," Peter said. He sat on the bed, really seriously thinking of staying home from work. He had a ton of leave. He annually donated his sick leave to almost anyone who needed it. His cell phone rang as he was about to call in.

Jones said, "Boss, there's some movement on the Giralli case. Our tracer is pulling up some money moving to Cayman."

Sighing, Peter said, "I'll be in." He really had to do something about Jones' early morning work hours.

"Wait," Peter said to Neal.

"I'll be right here, keeping your bed warm for you," Neal said, wiggling suggestively.

Peter walked into his office with a big grin that had nothing to do with the money trace paying off.

OooOooO

"I'm taking a long lunch," Peter said to Jones. The young agent was his favorite of the new team.

Son of blue collar parents, Peter had little tolerance for the Harvard and Yale graduates who populated the 'new' FBI. The motto had been "The smarter cop" but someone upstairs thought expensive degrees were the measure of intelligence. They may have scored well on tests and earned solid grades, but they were all so left brain. Peter uses both hemispheres and he uses them well. His intuition has garnered him solid collars. His logic helped the prosecutors convict.

Jones doesn't have those creative leaps, but he is refreshingly modest and his hard work makes up for his lack of genius. Peter also likes that Jones is open minded, kind, and a great listener. The young agent had a way of blending into the background until people talk around him. He has a great memory and can often recite verbatim conversations.

"I'm turning off my cell phone," Peter said.

"Boss?" Jones asked, wide eyed.

"You heard me. Take my calls until I come back," Peter said.

"What if your wife calls?" Jones asked. Jones has a crush on El.

"Not likely," Peter said shortly and supplied no further detail. He exited, leaving a saddened and disappointed Jones.

OooOooO

Peter's dreary apartment sparkled now. It was lit by the sun within. Neal changed his clothing so Peter would have known he had gone out without seeing the lunch he was preparing. It was an omelet with some kind of mushroom like things. They were very black if they were mushrooms. Peter poked at the peaches that looked temptingly glazed. He lifted a brow at Neal who nodded, giving permission. He tried a tiny fork full of peach. It was richly sweet and tasted of some sweet wine. He thought it tasted like Neal and wanted to see if that was true.

One arm around the slender waist and his other hand held a slice of peach to Neal's lips. The sight of that lush yellow fruit sliding between the pretty pink lips made Peter's cock rise. He robbed Neal of the sweetness, kissing the flavor of peach, wine, and Neal. He moaned into the kiss and he knew his grip on Neal's waist tightened, drawing him near, stroking Neal's ass possessively.

Neal laughed and said, "That later. I've been cooking all morning, Peter. I want to show off for you so let's eat first."

His feet bare, those jeans seemingly painted on, a light silk shirt in a blue that made Neal's eyes even more dramatic, his hair falling in artful waves, Neal waved the spatula he held as if it was a magic wand.

Neal could have served him a mud pie and it would have been eaten blissfully. Being in love was wonderful. Peter had six years of experience at resolved affection. This was new, intoxicating, entrancing. El was wise in her way. Peter understood that love was a miracle, worth keeping new. It might be too late for El. Neal was a second chance, a miracle for Peter who always assumed that his clumsy heart could only stumble its way to one true love.

Neal smiled, all white teeth, his head back, his eyes sunlit skies.

"What are these black things?" Peter asked, poking at one

"Truffles," Neal said.

"Those things that pigs find?" Peter said, eating the morsel. It was okay. There were truffles in the FBI warehouse of confiscated goods and Peter was aware of the price. For something that tasted to Peter's uneducated palate like a mushroom on steroids, it seemed outrageously overpriced. "Aren't these a little out of your prize range?"

"Oh, yes, muchly," Neal replied blithely. "But the grocier is a friend and I paid him with a pretty picture on his sign."

"Good," Peter said. "I'm hopeless, Neal. You can throw gourmet treats at me, but I'm more of an ale and deviled ham sandwich kind of guy."

"Doesn't matter," Neal said. "It's the thought, Peter."

Peter liked the way that Neal played out his names into two long syllables. Peter leaned on his elbow, chin cupped, his fork forgotten in other hand. Peter didn't know how many minute passed before suddenly he couldn't stand not touching Neal. He stood up, pulled Neal to his feet and into his arms.

"Mine, mine, mine," Peter said, stripping Neal's shirt and blue jeans. He did not give Neal time or breath to consent. He wanted to ravish him and Neal seemed very willing to be ravished. Kisses flew over the scrolled collar bone, moved back up to the grace of that neck. Stopped to steal away Neal's lips. For a moment, Peter's touch is delicate, appraising, a master jewel thief about to cradle his most coveted prize, but he surrendered to need and to greed. It was as if he feared that someone would take this too as he had lost El.

"Let's go to bed," Peter said, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own, deep, jagged with need, and full of his want.

"Oh, yes, Peter, just like this," Neal moaned as Peter roughly, too eagerly prepared him.

"I don't want to hurt you," Peter said, reminding himself. "I just want to love you."

Eagles fucked on the wing, tumbling downward in pleasure to almost hit earth. Tigers mounted their mates in perfect fierceness. Swans embraced with elegant necks entwined. Peter took Neal into his heart, built a fortress for him. Peter moved inside Neal, conquering him. His loss of El makes him fear to lose again. He must possess Neal with blind passion. He must mark him and keep him. He came so hard that he sprawled, Neal trapped beneath him, Neal unable to leave him.

"Peter, my love, you're crushing me," Neal said, untangling a hand to caress Peter's face.

"Don't leave me," Peter told his lover of one day. "I won't let anyone steal you from me."

If Neal had any sense, he would run now. Run as quickly as he could, but instead he embraced Peter. "It's all right; whatever it is, I'll make it right."

OooOooO

The next few days were a blur to Peter. He worked and no more nooners since Neal explained that he had to work, his boss giving him a scant forty five minutes for lunch.  
Evenings though were spent together, at Neal's, at Peter's. It didn't seem to matter where they made love, just that they made love at least once a night.

Peter found that he could find a million ways to make Neal come and sometimes wanted to try them all in one night.

Neal spread across the bed, eyes prayerfully rolled upwards, his hands handcuffed to the brass headboard of Neal's bed, his feet tied to the posts. His elegance, his pale smooth skin marked everywhere by Peter's kisses. His cock stood in quivering need from the soft nest of curls. His strong thighs were strung tight like bowstrings, his manicured finger nails dug into his palms as Peter teased him with flicks of his tongue. Neal's head rolled on his pillow. His hair was plastered to his forehead, sticking up wildly in the back, and, despite his devotion to style, he did not seem to care.

Finally, Neal groaned out, "Peter, too much, not enough. Give me. Finish me. Take me."

Peter knelt in worship, took Neal to the hilt in his mouth. He already knew what worked, taking Neal deep, his hands tightly holding Neal's powerful hips until that moment when Neal was moving in short desperate thrusts and then Peter's finger inside him, coaxing an orgasm that left Neal sobbing for breath. Peter liked to take Neal then, finishing preparing him, slow, owning strokes, this time from behind, Neal's leg partially supported by Peter's hand. This was a slow dance now. Peter almost sated by Neal's ejaculation. Neal slowly responding to Peter's body wrapped around him, Peter's cock deep inside him. This might be the best. This might be heaven, sexy, delightful and loving heaven.

The first sixty nine and Peter, hoping that he would not bite down as he pleasured Neal, while Neal gave one of his through, take Peter down past his tonsils blow jobs.

Quick shower sex when Peter really should be hurrying to get to work.

An entire Sunday spent in bed until the last time they made love, Peter's body was all one nerve so sensitized that even the brush of the sheet felt like angel kisses. Neal laughing as all Peter's body could muster the last time they made love was one weak spout of semen.

Peter walked into work each day, body tired, but mind working a mile a minute.

His calls to El and hers to him were friendlier. Peter had to stop himself from talking too much about Neal. He was so used to sharing everything with El that it seemed unnatural not to tell her how sweet Neal was, how much humor he had, how intelligent he was.

OooOooO

Peter liked to watch Neal sleep, his face different at peace, younger, pretty rather than the cutting beauty he had when clad in the brilliance of his waking mind. In Peter's mind a fantasy grows in which he wooed Elizabeth back and in which, she also loved Neal. He would have them both.

When Peter was young, they told him, his parents, condescending teachers, even his little league coach, that he would work in the steel mill like his father. It didn't matter to all of them that his grades were more than good, that he had a mind that soared as well as a body that made a starting team running back. They assumed.

The one teacher who did believe in Peter was gay, out if only in whispers because the world was nervous of gay men teaching children even though most of the ones who broke that kind of trust were heterosexual men. He was the one who paid out of his own pocket for Peter's SAT tests. He was the one who helped Peter fill out scholarship request after scholarship request. He was the first one Peter told when he finally was answered with a safety net of loans, grants, and work study.

All of that to say, Peter had a habit of getting what he wanted. He set his mind to something, he worked hard to get it, and he didn't quit until he either got it. It didn't always work, but it paid off most of the time. Neal, Elizabeth, and Peter together was something he wanted. Peter wanted it badly. So was it achievable?

Peter Burke had a reputation for bringing in his man even if his man was his woman. Peter fell asleep with a smile on his face.

OooOooO

"Lunch?" Peter asked Neal.

"There's that forty five minute thing," Neal said.

"Which is why I am stopping at a deli and picking up a picnic lunch."

"Peter, Je t'aime, mon cher," Neal said.

Stunned, Peter accidentally hit the mute button before he could remember to say, "I love you, Neal."

OooOooO

There was a small crowd gazing in the window of La Havre's gallery. Peter was tall enough to see over the heads. Neal was in the window painting. He was too intent on his production to see Peter and Peter enjoyed the moment of catching his lover unaware. Neal was clad in an over the top swashbuckler of a white shirt, black trousers, his usual Italian shoes. There was a smudge of red paint on his cheek. That one lock of hair that he could not control fell forward over the broad reach of his forehead. His eyes were blazing blue. He was copying Picasso's Garcon a la Pipe. His work was beautiful and exacting. Peter was thankful that Neal was not one of his subjects. From what he was seeing, Neal would be difficult to catch if he turned to forgery.

Proceeding into the shop, Peter had to call Neal's name twice to get him to stop painting.

"Peter," Neal called out with joy. He wiped his hand on a rag then grinned as he finally saw his audience. He bowed gracefully before cleaning his brushes and taking a quick look at his work so far.

The gallery had a small break room which Neal claimed. The business was small. One person had the till. Two others were already grabbing quick lunches from nearby fast food restaurants. They had the small table to themselves.

"What do we have? Not Deviled Ham?" Neal said, with a tiny shudder, opening the basket Peter carried.

"Black Forest Ham tarts, caviar, some grapes, and Tavel Rose for wine," Peter said.

"Wonderful," Neal said, lifting his brow. "And who planned the menu?"

Shuffling his feet, Peter admitted, "Elizabeth."

"You asked your wife what to serve your male lover for lunch?"

"Yes, I didn't want to screw up," Peter admitted.

"Your wife is unusual," Neal said.

"She is…wonderful," Peter said.

"You want her back," Neal said, his voice soft as he laid out the lunch.

"I do," Peter admitted, "but I want you just as much. It doesn't matter that it's only been a month. You may not believe this, but I don't love easily. I just knew I loved you from the moment I saw you. Yes, I still love my wife. Elizabeth is something special. You would like her."

"So you want a ménage a trois?" Neal said, sounding amused.

"She's going to divorce me," Peter said. "She doesn't want a ménage a trois with my work."

"It's better to have a few moments of perfection than a lifetime with mediocrity," Neal said.

"Neal Caffrey, are you calling me perfection?" Peter asked, with a grin.

"I call them as I see them," Neal said. He captured Peter's hand and kissed it. "I love to flirt, but, Peter, sex is a lot better with love. Everything is. Including Black Forest Ham Tarts which are excellent to start with. Thank Elizabeth for me."

Walking back to the office, Peter was happy. He believed he was going to be happy, with or without Elizabeth. Neal was his and Neal could deal with the risks of Peter's work.

OooOooO

Looking forward to his one month anniversary celebration with Neal that his lover had been reminding him about for a week, Peter was itching to be done with work. Jones plunked down a new case file. "Someone scammed Harford Adams."

The grin was irresistible. Peter remarked, "It couldn't happen to a better man."

Adams had his own case file. He had been involved in what Peter considered to be a scam, selling inflated insurance policies to the elderly and terminally ills. The policies were worthless. Adams, however, had shifted blame for his actions onto the small insurance agencies he manipulated into actually writing the policies. The fiasco had left the most vulnerable people in society destitute. Adams had managed to persuade his elderly or dying customers that they would have enough money to undertake new treatments, to pay for funerals, and to be able to leave a nest egg for the families. Instead, they were left with debts and worthless policies. Peter had tried to prosecute Adams but the prosecutor screwed up the trial, perhaps on purpose. Harford Adams was the scion of old money and still had powerful relatives in government and business.

"Oh, pretty," Peter remarked, taking a look at a sample of the forged bonds, "Nice touch," he said, pointing to the seal on the document. "Beautiful work."

"Boss, you ever hear the things you say? I could swear that you admire these perps." Jones said.

"Just the really good ones," Peter said. "We have to find the plates on these. You don't suppose that our charmer was thoughtful enough to leave fingerprints?"

"You wouldn't be happy if he was that dumb," Jones said. "You know, Peter, I'd nominate the guy for sainthood for scamming Adams. If I had my way, we would try Adams for murder. Two suicides were the result of his 'bad investments'. I can't believe he was found innocent."

"But it is our job to enforce the law," Peter said. He tapped the bond and said, "Let's have a look at relatives of people who bought the fake policies."

"Will do, boss," Jones said.

"You can handle the research on your own, can't you, Jones?" Peter said.

"Yeah, you getting serious about this mystery date you've been seeing?"

"Pretty much so," Peter said.

One more thing, Peter had done the same thing when he started dating Elizabeth. It was irresponsible, abusive of his power, and he could not stop himself from doing it. He ran a check on Neal Caffrey. His record was clean. Peter was about to erase the results when Elizabeth called. She sounded down and Peter felt guilty. "I just miss you," Elizabeth said.

"El," Peter said.

"But I'm not ready to go back with you," El said. "And you are getting serious about your Neal?"

"El, you have to meet him," Peter said. "You will love him."

Now El was laughing. "Did I once say you were too conventional? Peter!"

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Peter said.

"You give him a kiss from me," El said. "For making my best friend happy."

When El hung up, Neal called and Peter hurried to Neal's apartment where his lover was waiting.

OooOooO

They hadn't been to Neal's place for a week and Neal had belongings all over Peter's place. Neal said his loft was being renovated and most of his possessions were in storage until the work was done. Peter loved knowing that Neal would be waiting for him at the end of work so he thanked Neal's landlord in his heart for whatever was being done to Neal's loft.

There were candles everywhere. Peter smelled steak broiling. Neal was putting the finishing touch on a salad.

The smile that Neal gave Peter healed some place inside of him which El had left wounded.

"I'm glad you're home on time," Neal said.

And this apartment that had been the bleak setting for Peter's exile from El had become home once Neal was in it.

"I wanted tonight to be as perfect as you are," Neal said.

Before Neal could go back to his cooking, Peter took him in his arms. He just held him, looking into Neal's deep blue eyes. There was an ocean of depth to those orbs. There was a wonderland of sex, of love, of partnership in late night conversations about everything and anything, there was happy harmony of wits in this man that Peter had fallen for so swiftly and so completely.

"You make every moment I spend with you happy," Peter said.

"Oh, Peter," Neal said.

There was a hint of sadness in Neal's voice. Peter said, "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing you can fix," Neal said. "Look, I'll tell you when I have it together in my head. Tonight, let's eat with each other. Let's make love. Let's pretend there's nothing beyond the walls of this apartment. Let the world wither; all I need is you."

The food was good. Peter had worked through lunch and he was hungry when he walked in the door. Yet, the meal was just something to hurry through. What Peter wanted was Neal in his arms.

It was the best yet and each time was transcendent joy. Neal wanted Peter to take him as he had that first love-making, joined face to face, Neal's legs over Peter's shoulders, Peter's hands trembling on Neal's hips. It was sweat anointing them, consecrating them. It was two bodies merged into one creature that cried out, that surged against itself, that was enraptured and not alone, oh never lost in solitude and never stinted in sensation that kindled a connection that fed soul deep.

"Why don't you want to fuck me?" Peter asked later.

"I do. Of course, I do," Neal said. He was turned away, cradled in Peter's embrace, his body curved and fitting into the hollow made by Peter circled around him and sheltering him. "I just want that perfect moment. I want to know that you trust me totally before we do that. I want no barrier between us."

Peter didn't understand. Was Neal talking about safe sex because there was nothing safe in what they did, even if they did use condoms. Peter's heart was naked if his cock was shielded.

Giving up, Peter said, "I really don't understand."

"It's okay. I just have this vision about what I want that first time, the moment when I breach that part of you. I want it to say something. To say that is forever and that between us, it will be transparent, honest, and speak of our love in logos of love."

Peter slept and woke with Neal's head pillowed on his shoulder, Neal's breath warm and slightly damp on his skin, Neal's arm stretched across and holding him tightly. He knew he wanted to wake this way a thousand times. He wanted this forever.

Peter's work, his beloved, compelling bella dame sans merci of a job, demanded his attendance. Neal did not wake even when Peter escaped his embrace and stole away to prepare for his day. He slumbered so deep that Peter could only kiss a sleeping smile from his lips. Peter turned to look before shutting the door, taking this beauty into the harsh world outside as his shield.

OooOooO

"Hey, boss, how did you already know the name of one of the people related to the Adams' alleged victims?" Jones asked, arriving with a load of files and his ever present flash drive.

"What?" Peter asked, from behind his desk, on his third cup of coffee. Honeymooning was enjoyable, but he was running very short on sleep.

"This Neal Caffrey you were running last night? How did you know he was dating the daughter of one of Adams' victims?"

"Neal Caffrey? Which victim are you linking to him?" Peter asked as if he did not feel like standing up and punching poor Jones for the dread rising.

"Jasper Moreau," Jones said. "Neal Caffrey works for an art gallery."

"La Havre's," Peter said. There was a cold spot on his heart that was expanding at light speed. He set his coffee mug down carefully as if he could undo this moment if only the coffee did not spill. He reached for the file and nudged the mug, a splash of bitter liquid spilling on the polished surface of his desk.

"Yeah, damn you're good, Peter. It's not that this guy has a jacket," Jones said, "But I continued the research you started and I can see why you were interested. Caffrey has the skills to create those bonds. Guy is somewhat of a genius although not a successful one, not yet at least. He graduated with a master's degree at twenty two. He was the recipient of multiple scholarships. Caffrey won a prize in an art contest when he was fourteen and had it denied him because he forged the application and lied about his age. He was not old enough to win, but beat out adult artists. He has a minor in business and a double major in art history and fine arts."

"What about the girl friend?" Peter asked, remembering Neal had told him that he was also on a break up.

"Kate Moreau is a little younger than Caffrey. Her father was the victim of Adams's alleged fraud. His wife was dying of cancer. The guy mortgaged his home to the hilt, sold off his property, and cashed in his life insurance to buy Adams' high risk policies, thinking that it would pay for a last ditch effort to save his wife. He lost everything. The wife died. His daughter, Kate Moreau, was left destitute and had to drop out of college. It's tragic. Caffrey lived with the Moreau family for a while when he was a kid so his ties to Ms. Moreau go way back. Kate's father tried to shoot Harford Adams and was facing charges when he took his dead wife's pain medication and killed himself. Kate Moreau and Neal Caffrey found the body. There are plenty of people who have the motivation to get Adams, but so far, boss, Caffrey is the only one who has the skills to set up a scheme smart enough to con a conman and the artistic and technical skills to manufacture 'a lost government bond' plausible enough to fool a greedy man."

Peter said, "Thanks, Jones, hey, let me read this over. Good work."

If Peter had faced a firing squad, he would have refused the blindfold and shot brave words in defiance of his executioners. He opened the files, read, reviewed, went over the flash drive to make sure that Jones was not wrong about the other victims having the skills. It was the kind of solid investigation he expected of Jones. Peter would rather have faced the bullets than accept what the facts told him.

Picking up the phone, Peter first called Neal's work.

Neal's coworker, Nancy, said, "Oh, Neal quit this morning, came in late, didn't even wait for his last check, took his original paintings that hadn't sold and said he had a family emergency."

There was no answer at Peter's apartment and Neal's home phone was disconnected. Neal's cell said, "This number is no longer in service."

"I have a lead," Peter said, "Put a trace on Caffrey and Moreau. Get a motion for production on any assets, bank records, friends, places they might go if they were on the run."

"You think the birds have flown?" Jones asked.

"You think I just want this information because I need some light reading?" Peter snapped. It was harsh, but Peter's life was crashing to levels of lowest hell. He grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs and to the elevator.

OooOooO

Peter's life was no fairy tale. There was no Neal waiting with an explanation. Every trace of the man was gone except a letter on Peter's carefully made bed. Peter knew it might have been evidence, but he feared it was blackmail. His fingers shook as he opened the letter. The envelope was scented with the complex perfume oil that Neal used.

"Mon cher, Peter,

You are so very dear to me. I wanted to stay. I am sure you don't believe that and I am sure that you believe it was all a cruel game. You are a man who is used to being right, but you don't know everything. The biggest thing you don't know is how difficult it is not to love you.

I will not try to fool you. Yes, I meant to meet you. I stalked you from the first case you opened on one of my crimes. I needed the money to set Adams up, but I tried to choose targets that were as poor examples of human kind as he is to get the money.

I stalked you as you were stalking me. You were irresistible to me.

I knew you went to the dog park when you were troubled. I can be a patient man when I choose. It took three days for you to find me there. The rain was a lucky roll of the dice for me. I intended to tease from you information that would help me to keep ahead of you, but I beg you to remember each word I said as I remember those said to me.

I did not ask you about my case nor anything more than a lover would question his amour over a good day or a bad. I did not take advantage. I could not.

I was, I am head over heels in love with you.

I will not ask that you stop chasing me. I will try to spare you the pain of catching me, my love.

Should we meet again, my handsome Peter, I will not remind you of this time. I shall not reproach you if you take my freedom or even my life. If I look at you too long or with too loving eyes, you may look away in silence.

I know you though. I know you love me still no matter how bitter my love may taste to you now.

I believe you can win back your Elizabeth. How could she who has known you for years love you less than I do, having a scant handful of days? Talk to her. Go to her. I will think of you in her arms and, if it pains me for myself, it will comfort me that you are with someone who adores you as much as I do.

You probably know about my girl now. Kate is my friend. Her family took me in when I had no one. I thought I could love no other, but I was wrong. However, she needs me and I can not bear to be alone. I will pay whatever price must be paid.

I will always be your Neal and you are written deep on my heart.

XOXO Neal

OooOooO

When it was obvious that Neal had escaped, disappeared, and had left no trace, Peter called El. She was his best friend as he was hers. She was the only one to whom he could turn.

His despair must have been obvious in his voice because she said, "Come home. Come tell me, Peter. I'll be here for you."

Peter stumbled into the living room as soon as El answered the door. Peter said, "He was playing me. He's a criminal, a forger, an art thief, and a confidence man."

"Neal is?" El said, shaking her head. "No, I don't believe that. He might be all of those things, but you would know if he didn't love you. Peter, you have the best heart for loving and being loved of any man I have ever known."

El lead him to the couch and Peter buried himself in her embrace. She stroked his hair and finally said, "I wanted to tell you. I decided. I would rather risk losing you than not have you at all. I will be there for you when you make the time for me. I will not reproach you when you work through dinner. My career is taking off so sometimes I will not be home waiting. I will love you and you will love me. We will make it work."

El's smile is a blessing. She says, "And when your Neal returns, somehow we will make that work too."

"He won't be back," Peter said. "And I would not ask that of you."

"He made you happy when I chose to give you grief, Peter. I owe him for taking care of you. And I want to meet someone you could love so deeply in so few days."

Peter shook his head again, but he didn't argue. Someday he would catch Caffrey and put him in prison. If his former lover used their affair against him, then Peter would deal with that too.

The letter however, he locked away in his safe as he locked the memory of his lover, Neal, deep in his heart.

OooOooO

Peter never spoke of his lover. He did speak of Neal Caffrey, remained fascinated with his crimes, and could not ask to be removed from the case because he would have to explain and he would not.

When he processed through everything that he knew about Neal, Peter wasn't afraid that his love would betray him, not really. It was as if that, despite the pain of Neal's betrayal, Peter still believed that the emotion was genuine. He believed that Neal had loved him.

When Neal was arrested the first time, he did not beg for mercy and Peter gave him none. He was not the one who handcuffed Neal. He was afraid that to touch him was to be taken by him.

The second time was even harder with Neal now begging with everything but the reminder of what they had.

It was that silence, that Neal would not even when they were alone play that card; that ultimately persuades Peter. He knows the words unspoken were a pledge of love that Neal still made with all his heart.

When she meets Neal, Elizabeth falls for Neal. Of course, she does.

Kate or no, Neal sends every signal that he still loves Peter and still wants him.

All Peter has to do is reach.

Shall he withhold his hand?

The end

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not take the trial separation in this story as disrespect to Elizabeth. She is a loving, passionate wife. It takes a lot to accept that the man you love leaves each day and any day you might get the call that he will never come home. I think when we meet El, she has accepts Peter's work and built some defense in her career, but accepting that would take time. The first time Peter is shot would be terrifying. You know it could happen, but that would make it very real to El. So that's said.


End file.
